


Leather Jackets, Feathers, and Things

by bellyuppo



Series: Of Angels and Demons [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Biblical References, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 10:36:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13456455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellyuppo/pseuds/bellyuppo
Summary: When the only things separating demons from angels are their primary mailing address and their appetite for old beaten leather, the sole obstacle to Steter making like horny bunnies in unholy matrimony is Stiles’ ridiculous aversion tofeelings.As always, Peter makes do.





	Leather Jackets, Feathers, and Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fictitious parody which is not meant to attack or offend any affiliated religious beliefs. If you foresee either of these things happening to you during and/or following the reading of this fic, then this is not for you. Please by all means return to the previous page.

Stiles is a demon.

He knows it, his friends know it, every angel and shitty God in the penthouse-suite know it (some of them quite _intimately)._

It comes with its perks. He's certainly fallen thoroughly in infatuation with his regulation uniform – leather, hand-stitched and perfectly aged – and the pay is nothing to scoff at.

‘Course that's not to say everything is dandy and hellhound-happy all the time. Lucifer is a right damper on his best days and the weather down there is more temperamental than Abaddon (a.k.a. Sloth) on Labor Day.

But even with all that, Stiles wouldn't trade his job for anything, no matter what the good chunk of feathery cockatoos like to preach from on upstairs.

There's just one tiny problem.

Nothing earth-shattering, just a tiny thing.

Really it wouldn't even be an issue, because he’s had a lot of problems with his self-image but he’s learned to love himself, love who and what he is, and yeah, getting some acknowledgement in that department is great. Fabulous even.

It’s just that some things get so dull after a while, repetitive, and flattering though it is, why Stiles is just that _tiny_ bit tired of hearing-

**“ _Demon!”_**

_-that_ every time he makes it to the ground floor.

And Stiles gets it. He does. Demons have a reputation and it’s been a few millennia since hellfire and torture racks were a regular fixture in the Pit, but he understands how much easier it is to ruin a reputation than to build it back up from scratch.

He sighs, hooking a hand in the shirt collar of the fleeing human and yanking him back inside the ritual circle.

Still, it’s not like he’s here because he wants to be, and if he earned a soul for every human who’s wanted to back out the second they laid eyes on him and realized that, no, this isn’t just play dates and plastic tea cups, well, let’s just say the basement would have reached maximum capacity a _long_ time ago.

“What’ll it be?” he drawls. “Fame? Power?” His eyes rove up and down the trembling figure hunched in the middle of the circle, “Hundred so bucks for fix number two-twenty-five?”

The human’s eyes widen in terror, but he says nothing, and Stiles resists the urge to scream. That only ever makes things worse.

He suppresses a wince as he recalls the last time _that_ happened. Poor thing had spent the rest of her days in the max-security ward of the state psychiatric facility.

(Stiles ensured that she’d have her slate thoroughly cleaned before her resurrection after she finally kicked the bucket.  She’s lived several wonderfully uneventful lives since.)

He digs his fingers over his aching brows instead. “C’mon, man. Give me something to work with here.”

“I- I-“ the human stammers.

Stiles croons encouragingly. “Yes? You, what?”

“I want-“

Stiles can practically taste the victory hanging at the end of that sentence. But then the air ripples, heralding a silent flutter of feathers, and he barely has time to call out a frantic _“No, wait!”_ before the human drops, eyes rolling in the back of his head. He hits the muddy ground with a loud squelch, and Stiles whirls around, snarling furiously at the white-clad figure strutting out from beyond the tree line.

“Ah, Stiles. I should have known.”

Stiles never regrets his life choices more than he does every time he recognizes that beautiful, smirking face.

His fists clench. “ _Hale!”_

“Peter, please, darling,” Peter tuts. “I thought we’d gotten past this.” The angel crosses his arms snug across his chest, and Stiles distractedly wonders what purpose those sleeves possibly serve when clearly they do nothing to hide the lean curves of his biceps. He blames that thought when he then pictures him in a black leather vest and nothing else, and has to hastily shunt the lot to the back of his brain before he pops a nosebleed.

Peter raises a brow like he knows what he's thinking about, cocking his head.

“Shut up,” Stiles snaps at him. He tries not to notice the long slope of Peter’s thick, stubble-clad throat, except of course that's exactly what happens, and Stiles quietly admits to himself for the nth time that his mind is a horrible, _horrible_ place to be.

He plasters an affronted scowl across his face.

“You stole my human!”

“I beg to differ,” Peter says. “He keeled over perfectly of his own volition. All I did was land here.”

_“You-”_

Peter flippantly flaps a palm through the air. “Besides, it’s not like he’s _dead_. Just wake him up later.”

“Oh, so you’re not here to intercept a perfectly good contract, are you?”

“Well, now that you mention it.”

Stiles smiles at that, mockery and derision only half-feigned. “Aw. Does miss Hedwig want a slice of bacon?”

Peter’s eyes flash as he grins sharply. “I’m a soldier, Stiles, not a delivery bird. And playing fetch is _not_ in the job description.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Stiles snarks back, trying very hard not to read too much into that look.

It’s been a while, but, _come on,_ he scolds himself. It’s just _Peter._

_Get a grip, Stilinski._

Peter prowls toward the outer ring of runes, and Stiles resents that the swing of his hips is more swagger and elegance than a blatant sign for _screw me_ just a little. He stops about two feet away from Stiles, saying, “No self-serving angel would ever pass up the bounty from a failed deal, especially one so poorly hidden. It was practically an invitation.”

“I thought you were a _soldier,”_ Stiles points out, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Whatever. Greed is a cardinal sin, you know.”

Peter shrugs. “And who’s going to call me out on it? My sisters? My brothers?”

His shoulders tighten. “ _Father?”_

Stiles throws his hands in the air, stomping on the subtle zing of pleasure when it nudges Peter back into his usual _savior-faire_.

“I can’t believe humans think _angels_ are the paragon of grace and virtue.”

“It’s all about relativity, sweetheart,” Peter says arrogantly.

“Fuck you. Who was the one organizing orgies and spiked punch at the last holiday party?”

“Yes, well, Derek was very disappointed you didn’t show that night, Stiles,” Peter grimaces – so does Stiles – before his expression morphs into a doe-eyed frown of disappointment. “As was I,” he steps closer, bridging the rest of the distance between them.

Stiles doesn’t believe him for a second, which doesn't explain why his thumbs twitch self-consciously regardless. “A bunch of uncoordinated pigeons,” he grumbles. “That’s what you are.”

“You do realize we’ve slept together? Multiple times. Keep this up and I’ll have to add bestiality to your list of, hm, _guilty_ pleasures.”

Peter whispers the last few words in his ear, and Stiles bats the rising flush at the thought of him having a comprehensive list of what gets Stiles all hot and bothered squirreled away in that crazy brain of his.

“Gross.” He clears his throat, pulling away, “Also, why can’t you say _kinks_ like a normal person?”

Peter doesn’t let him get far, tugging at the hold he’s threaded between Stiles’ fingers. “Boring,” he declares, smirking.

Stiles scoffs, putting up a token protest as he’s dragged back in. “Creep.”

“Brat.”

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

Stiles recalls the emblem of the Hale family flock. “ _Wolf.”_

“Oo, _kink_ y.”

Peter’s eyes sparkle with mirth, drawing him in and – shit, were they always so goddamned _blue?_ Stiles thinks he might get lost in them if this goes on for much longer, but then the human snuffles from his prostrated huddle on the ground, flopping onto his back and breaking the moment, and for all that he’d been ready to jump Peter’s bones a split second ago, Stiles can’t decide if he’s more relieved, or irritated, or both.

Their eyes meet and a tiny snort unwittingly worms its way out his nose.

“What?” Peter asks, a small quirk at the edge of his lips, curious and almost soft.

“Nothing, I just, _this-“_ he waves broadly over their heads. “You tried to kill me, once.”

Peter smirks again, though the corners of his eyes crinkle. “So did you. Obviously, we’re a match made in Heaven.”

“And Hell,” Stiles points out, weirdly competitive.

“And Hell,” Peter agrees, rolling his eyes.

They stay together for a minute just like that, until Stiles realizes he’s forgotten to reject – nay, he _agreed –_ to what basically amounts to the notion that he and Peter, _Stiles_ and _Peter,_ are made for each other.

His eyes widen like dinner plates

_Fuck, shit, fuckity shit. **Fuck.**_

He inhales, panicking, but before he can do more than suck in another breath, Peter scoots forward, clamping down on his hand and ducking his head as he fuses their lips together. Stiles goes blank, all the alarm, shock, and worry fleeing in the face of the warmth and crush of the kiss.

_Dear_ Lucifer, _that's goo-_

He’s dazed when Peter starts to pull away, but he’s got enough of his sense left to haul him back in for another one, hotter and more desperate than the last, and another one, and another one.

Finally, Peter yanks himself free, laughing. “You’re ridiculous.” His hair is sticking every which way and there’s a high flush to his cheeks.

Stiles knows he doesn’t look any better when he says, “Not as ridiculous as _you.”_

Nonchalance, it's what he's aiming for. He suspects he comes off as fondly exasperated more than anything when Peter melts by increments, small shifts in his posture until he’s practically welded against the entire length of Stiles’ body, and, oh, he’s purring now too. Nice.

Stiles snubs the unease bubbling away just underneath the surface, and tells himself it’s relief that perfuses his limbs as he untangles their arms – and legs, what the fuck – and steps away.

He doesn't look up as he says, “I have to go.”

Peter doesn't sound at all affected when he murmurs back, “Yes, so do I.”

Stiles reminds himself that he has no grounds to feel disappointed as he melts into the dirt floor to be chewed out by the boss for another lost client.

He doesn't see the blue eyes that track him doggedly as he goes, almost obsessive in their intensity, or the foot that viciously kicks the only other remaining party in the solar plexus, knocking him back out with a pained gurgle.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making this a series but tbh am fast running out of steam. So if you liked/loved/hated this and/or have any ideas, I would love to read them. Thanks:D


End file.
